Bone Scan
by Hito
Summary: Seamus/Ginny, Seamus/Dean. The history of an affair that isn't over. Slash.


Title: Bone Scan

Author: Hito

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Seamus/Ginny, Seamus/Dean

Feedback: Please

Disclaimer: Not mine. 

Author's Note: I'm not good with ratings. If it offends anyone, I'll bump it up one. Also, it's unbetaed. And my first HP. Abuse me, I'll thank you for the help. Title filched from the poem of the same name by Gwen Harwood. Yes, I am ashamed of myself, why do you ask? 

*

Ginny liked to look as if she'd just stepped out of a sepia photograph. Tea dresses, she said, but Seamus wasn't anglicised enough to know what that meant. Rose and green, always; green had always been a colour of choice for Weasleys. Roses dotted her clothes, the textured wallpaper, and in recent years, as the red of her hair had deepened, rose had been proven to heighten the mythic qualities of her appearance. 

Or so she told him. The carefully sculpted swathes of skin, the smooth planes of her face, curved lines of bone did speak to him of ancient Greece, but perhaps he was thinking of those old movies where everything had been westernised. 

Or perhaps he was completely off-track again, as hadn't been uncommon lately; he'd lived primarily in the wizarding world for some time, and his knowledge of such things was growing blurry around the edges. And the middle, if he was to be honest. 

Cosmopolitan, definitely. Continental, for all she lived on the edge of Europe. 

He could hear her moving about in the bedroom behind him as she prepared to leave. Vanilla scent announced her approach and as she bent over him, the crumpled spill of the scarf wrapped around her neck brushed his face. Time was she would have used that to hide a hickey, not tossed it on without sparing a thought to it. 

Slender arms enfolded him. "I'm so late. We'll probably still go out after dinner, but I shouldn't be late back; Hermione has to work tomorrow." 

He offered a smile that he hoped didn't look stiff. He couldn't tell anymore. "Don't drink too much, or you'll have to stay at hers." 

Her eyes flared something, but cleared before he could identify the emotion. She ruffled her fingers through his hair. "No, we wouldn't want that. What will you do while I'm gone?" 

"I'll think of something. Probably I'll just do some reading." 

"Ah." He tilted his head up to meet the kiss. "I'll see you later." And she was gone, and Seamus turned back to the window. 

The steady drizzle had brought forth boring black umbrellas that spoke of the winter trudge through town that had ended a brief period of unemployment long ago, but mostly people were staying indoors. The street was usually deserted at this time of night anyway; the shops at the end of the road were closed, and families were settled in front of the television for the rest of the night. The sky was murky, brownish and dull; it was barely nine, but the streetlights glowed pink and headlights flashed through trees. He could see lights begin to appear along the opposite row. Little flickers of a storm coming. Flashes of lightning that were short enough to seem hallucinatory. 

The middle of July. This was what summer looked like when you were an adult. He wished he were back at Hogwarts. Well, almost. He did wish that he could take summers off. 

Dean did, effectively. He was manager of the Dublin Quidditch team—small-time stuff, but a decent start—having traced back to some three-times great-aunt or some such, and there was little for him to do now that the season was over. He had always spoken of managing a football team. Seamus wasn't sure why he had never gone for that. Though he could take a better guess, now. Years too young for either, but there had always been a hidden drive there, and surprisingly, he hadn't shown any skill in the air. 

Dean was long and lithe, his natural grace overpowered by the energy that was always crackling just beneath the surface. Seamus knew every rough patch of skin on that body. Had soothed them with his tongue. 

A young girl slunk along miserably, soaked to the bone in skimpy clothes. Seamus didn't feel a thing. 

Well, he felt like dragging the poor thing in and setting her down in front of the fire with a nice, hot cup of tea, so maybe that was something. 

It didn't make him feel any less depressed though. 

And it had only been three months. And only a week since he had last seen Dean, since Dean had gone to New Zealand and Seamus had promised himself— And that mightn't have lasted, but he had sworn that he wouldn't go running over there tonight, desperate to see Dean the second he returned. Any minute, almost. 

And even if that resolve wasn't working either, three months hadn't changed _everything_:he could still be attracted to a random nubile, wet, half-naked female. 

Only, he wasn't. This was vaguely disturbing to him. Even more so than everything else. 

He had known, of course, that what he was doing was dangerous. That he was risking the loss of his best friend, a man he had loved for, Jesus, fourteen years, more than half his life. It just hadn't occurred to him what else he could lose. 

There had always been the possibility that he would lose Ginny, that she would discover the truth and leave. He had chosen to disregard that; and that said something – about which of them he was unsure – that he preferred not to examine too closely. 

But it had never occurred to him that he would be the one to leave. Besides being a little tacky, like some middle-aged executive running off with his secretary, it had—it had just seemed impossible. Utterly and completely out of the question. 

A year and a half in Hogwarts. Then they had started dating again five years ago, and moved in together after two. He was twenty-five, attractive, reasonably successful and had dated the same girl for almost seven years; he was supposed to be considering _marriage_, not leaving her for another man. 

And he knew she knew. She knew, and hadn't said anything. He could just stop it, stop and go back to the way things had been, the way things should be. Everything could be fine. She was willing to forgive. 

He had been happy, he was fairly sure. It was getting harder to remember that. 

A boring house in a bland suburb of Dublin. Ginny hadn't been sure about that, but she had wanted to move in with him. He would have moved back to London—he had always assumed that he'd emigrate, for some reason—but she hadn't asked. The neighbours were disinterested; it might as well have been a dormitory town, and they could come and go as they pleased. For three years they had gone to work, gone out and seen their friends, talked, had reasonably regular sex—lived. They had been peaceful. Content. Willing to spend alternating Sunday afternoons with each other's parents. It had seemed perfect. 

The amount of time he spent with Dean hadn't decreased. That should maybe have set off warning bells, after what had happened, but it didn't. Dean was his friend. Dean was loved. Dean was— Best not to add anything else to that, and had that always been true? 

Popping back and forth to see him, and Ginny did it with Hermione, if maybe not so often. Things even better when he had gotten the job, mainly because Seamus's every Christmas—well, a good many of them—had come at once when he had met the players. More nights spent listening to music and talking in Dean's below-ground flat in town, even though it made Seamus slightly claustrophobic. 

And things had been normal, just like they had been at school but with actual money to have actual fun with. 

And then a drunken kiss, over a pub table in Aberdeen, and Seamus had been to every game since and some of the practice sessions besides. 

He couldn't seem to remember why he hadn't stopped things then. How he had ended up in Dean's hotel room, quite clear-headed, sprawled across Dean on the bed. Frantic, fierce kisses, Seamus's hands pinning Dean to the mattress, and it was something that he had never done before. But he had wanted to, God he had wanted to, maybe for years and he had managed it with Dean's help. 

Waking up in tangled, messy sheets, half-buried under a man bigger than he was, surrounded by dark skin and a scent as familiar as his own, he had bitten his lip against the rush and moved closer. And he hadn't stopped it. 

He had gone home to Ginny, and then over to Dean's for drinks. Sometimes, he just went over to Dean's for drinks. He had woken up with Ginny, and immediately apparated off to see the latest match. Spent whole days with Dean, and Dean had spent most of the time working but Seamus hadn't cared. Sometimes pleaded fatigue and spent whole nights with him too. Woken up with Dean, and stayed as long as he dared. 

It had gone on like that for two months. 

Seamus glanced at his watch. Dean would be home now, probably. He reached out, drawing patterns in the condensation on the windowpane. His name. Traced doors, windows, distant trees. Stopped himself halfway through the curve of the D. 

He had an idea that he should be regretful, that he should consider Ginny, what he was doing to her and what she deserved, and wish to set her free of him; give her freedom like a gift and try to make what reparations he could. He had not wished to do this. He felt guilty, naturally, terribly, terribly guilty; felt pain every time he had to lie and look at her. 

But he didn't feel regret. Had had no intention of sacrificing her like that. Knew that he was compounding his sins, and didn't care. 

*

It had been one of the rare sunny afternoons in June. Seamus had wandered around the house, too lazy to shout, finally locating Ginny in the airy kitchen. He had glanced at the clock, felt his stomach rumble in response to the painted fruit, and snagged a pear from the bowl on the sparkling table. 

"I'm going to head over to Dean's. I'll see—" 

Ginny's head had snapped up. "Don't." Eyes wide and staring, magazine forgotten. Totally still within her skin, but then she always was. Movements always economical, training had made them next to unwelcome. Nothing that wasn't elegant, she could be a little too controlled, a little too exact, too small. Sometimes it felt like she wasn't reaching far enough, even when she came back with something in hand. 

Seamus had hesitated, and gone with the old stand-by: hedging. "Hmm?" Indistinct through a mouthful of flesh. 

"Don't go." Dark look; she had known. And he had known. 

Breathless second, and he had to bluff. "Why not? I'll be—" 

"Seamus." Her voice had been sharp and distressed and he had taken a step backwards, but he hadn't backed down. 

"Why not? I said I'd go." 

Endless time, her eyes boring into his, so intense that it hurt, and her gaze had dropped. She had licked a finger, flicking a page calmly. "No reason. I just thought— It doesn't matter. If you have plans…" 

Her hands had clenched on her knees under the table. She hadn't looked up, and she hadn't spoken again. She hadn't turned the page, and her eyes hadn't moved. 

Eventually, he had cleared his throat. "I do." 

He had closed his eyes and opened them on Dean's welcoming smile. 

"Seamus—" Dean coming towards him, arms reaching, not knowing, and Seamus had taken a sharp right and headed straight for the bed. 

"Oh God, oh God—" Face buried between the soft, large pillows and he had wanted Dean to follow him. Scrambled over as soon as he felt the hand on his back. "She knows." 

Dean's panic had been instantly suppressed. "Ginny—" Half a question and Dean's hand on his stomach was far too intimate for this conversation. Seamus hadn't thought to brush him away. 

"Yes. She asked me not to come. She knew." And dragging the pillow back over his face was cowardly, but he had done it anyway, and he had known that this could happen, but he had done it anyway, and he couldn't stop. 

"But you came. And she didn't— What did she say?" 

"Nothing. She just asked me not to come. And I said I had to and she, she said fine. But she knows, Dean—" 

Dean's hand had tightened on his hip, and he had slid down until he was face to face with Seamus. "But she's not going to do anything. I mean, she wasn't shouting, or screaming, or threatening—" 

"But it doesn't matter, she know—" 

"No, it does matter, Seamus. She knows about it, about us, but it doesn't matter, she won't say anything. She didn't ask you to stop, she's not going to leave, or tell anybody. It's okay, Seamus, it's fine." 

Brief, biting kisses, forcing Seamus down, refusing to hear anything else. And he hadn't known, there was no way that he could have known that everything he said was true. But he had said it anyway, and Seamus had listened. 

Muttering into his mouth, his neck, and Seamus's clothes had been disappearing at an alarming rate. "Don't—doesn't—just stay, she won't—" Sudden, scary eye contact. "And would it matter if she did?" 

A gasp that had nothing to do with anything but Dean's hands. "What? You--" 

And Dean's hands had been moving firmly, possessively, over Seamus' bare thighs. "If she did know, if people knew that you were gay. Would it matter? If she left." 

Too much to take, too much to think about, and Seamus hadn't been able to make his brain operate his vocal cords. Something must have been written on his face, he didn't want to know what, and Dean had dropped it. His face had shuttered, and he'd leant back down for more kisses and continued with what he was doing. 

"Won't happen. Just ignore it and it'll be fine. Just don't let it change anything." 

Looking down at his best friend, Seamus had accepted everything offered and forced himself to believe every word out of that mouth, and it hadn't changed a thing. 

*

The sky was glowing now, behind the ever-present, all-encompassing clouds. The streetlights had been extinguished again and the colours were vivid, the reds of the cars garish. The rain was pounding down, thunder a soft rumble overhead. Seamus loved looking out the upstairs windows: so much more was visible. He would've loved to live in an apartment in the sky; he couldn't imagine inhabiting Dean's cellar. 

It had mostly been there that they had met though, and Seamus had managed to overlook its deficiencies. Hours of tangled limbs and sweat and laughter had been more than enough compensation. Despite that, it was the final, aborted meeting that stood out the most clearly, every gesture, movement and word weighing down on him. 

*

Seamus had been ambling towards Dean's office, content in the knowledge that they had a whole afternoon to kill, when Murphy had stormed past him, almost knocking him over, her righteous rage spoiled only by her petulant pout. 

The door had gaped open, and Dean's eyes had still been angry when they met Seamus'. The anger had lingered as a smile stretched his mouth. 

"Seamus. You're early." Quick push away from his desk, rising in greeting. 

"Um. Do you mind? Bad time?" Careful advance into the room; Seamus had always feared that someday that anger would be directed at him. No reason for it, though, just remnant. 

"No. Not bad." Dean had attempted to collect himself with a quick swipe of his hand over his face, and sunk back into his chair, swivelling about a bit. Nervous tick. 

Seamus had approached another few wary steps. "Anything wrong?" 

A laugh that was nothing like good, and what time exactly did Dean's holiday start? "Nothing—" Glazed over eyes erased by a shake of the head. "No, nothing." 

And did Dean think that they had met yesterday? Seamus knew when he was lying. But maybe— He didn't want to ruin Dean's trip; maybe if he just ignored it Dean would be able to as well. "Okay." 

Dean had focused on him again, extending a hand, but a thread of something was still taut in the background. Seamus had relaxed as Dean pulled him closer, flicking the door shut. 

Hand in hand, they had looked at each other, everything off-kilter. "So. Heading for the sun?" 

"Mm, well, I wanted to get _some_ this summer, and with this weather…. What will you do while I'm away?" False easiness, and the prickling knowledge that Dean was forcing himself through something with Seamus had been like drowning, making breathing a chore. But Dean had wanted to pretend, and it hadn't been a good time for a fight, a confrontation, whatever was on the edges of their words. 

"Have less fun. Work. Go and see my parents. Life is boring." 

More something, but Seamus had become increasingly sure that he didn't want to think about it. "Give them my best." 

Strange comment, even with the wrongness of the whole situation, and Seamus had just smiled and moved in, falling onto Dean's lap, lips making contact with his skin. Wet trail across his jaw, shining darkness that was fascinating beyond reason. After a second, Dean's head had fallen back and Seamus had moved to the soft skin beneath his chin, and further on down his neck. Harder to mark Dean, or less obvious anyway, so Seamus had caught the skin between his teeth, and sucked just a little. Dean had been shifting, and Seamus had known it wasn't enough; Dean liked it hard, pain edging the pleasure, and sometimes even the reverse. 

Refusing to admit to relief, Seamus had moved to Dean's open mouth, stroking and licking and sucking, enjoying the wavering of Dean's breath, and swallowing down a mewl of his own as Dean began to respond in kind. Seamus' hands had strayed to Dean's waist, tugging at his shirt, trying to drag the tails out of his trousers. Dean's had already been on Seamus' back, a little cold on the warm skin, so that Seamus had been unsure exactly why he was shivering. 

Finally, the cotton had loosened, three buttons had slipped from their holes, and Seamus had dropped to his knees. As his teeth had sunk into Dean's stomach, his hands had wandered over the chest above, searching out old bruises, rubbing the material against them. His lips had quirked at the single hiss. 

Dean's fingers had been scraping across his scalp, something like a massage, close to impossible to think, and that was how Seamus liked it, lulled into a dream, a place where euphoria was routine, believable. 

And eventually, he had thought to move on, because Dean had been squirming under his mouth, showing signs of restlessness, of initiative, and that would never do. Seamus meant Dean to remember this, while he was gone. He had been trying to decide whether to remove the shirt or the trousers when Dean had stilled. The trousers, definitely. He had gone for the belt, fingers just slipping below the waistline. 

And Dean had spoken, on a broken gasp. "I thought you went to your parents today." 

Unsettling, but easy, surely— "Uh, we did." Had considered returning to the attack, but Dean had been stiff, and not in the encouraging way, anymore. Instead, he had forced himself not to retreat when Dean's arms fell away and his body slumped. 

"I haven't seen them in more than a year, you know." 

He hadn't known. "No? We'll have to rectify that, then." 

Tried to smile, but Dean hadn't been looking at him anyway. "Do they like Ginny?" 

The vague uneasiness he had been suppressing since that day when he had gone to Dean with Ginny aware of exactly what he was going to do had returned full force, and expanded until it was everything. 

"Who doesn't like Ginny?" And he had known that was a bad idea while listening to the words leave his mouth. 

Dean's eyes had swung round to his face, unfocused. "Me. I don't like Ginny. You wouldn't believe how much I don't like Ginny." 

Seamus had shifted his weight, moving up and away a bit, hoping that if he recovered his balance physically, the mental would follow. "Dean, it's not—" 

"It's not what, Seamus? It's not serious? It's not like you're going to marry her?" Detachment, but Seamus had been able to sense the anger underneath, stronger than the hurt, and just as prone to cut.

"No, it's just that—" 

"It's exactly like that. You're going to be with her while I'm gone, you're going to visit her parents next weekend, have lunch, and laugh, and compliment her mother. And afterwards, you're going to come and fuck me. And then, you're going to marry her, and you're going to fuck me. Probably at the reception." 

Dean's hair was sheared off, short enough that Seamus couldn't thread his fingers through it, couldn't get any grip at all. He had jerked his head back, but Seamus had followed. 

"Dean, don't, please—" 

"Why not?" 

"Because I—" 

"Oh, Seamus, stop it, just stop. Who are you even lying to anymore?" Dean hadn't sounded anything but tired, and that had been terrifying. Like it was over, and he wasn't fighting, and – maybe it wouldn't do any good if Seamus fought for him. Only a handful of heartbeats more before Dean had turned his gaze away. "It's not what, Seamus? It's not like this means anything?" 

And there was no reply to that, nothing that Seamus could say. A thousand words had struggled for voice, but none had surfaced. Seamus had been too shocked to think, too absurdly grateful that Dean had left the 'I' unspoken to realise that time and his chances were fast vanishing. He was slipping and sliding on unsteady debris, he was going to land hard, this was dangerous, and well, he should have thought of that before he had fallen—or leapt—shouldn't he? 

"Dean…." 

"Go, Seamus. I'm tired of this. It's too mu— It's not enough." 

And in the stretched moments before leaving, as he slid his hand over that fuzzy black head, still trying to fit in, both of them, he hadn't thought of her. 

*

Now, he didn't think of her while he was with her. And there was the answer he had been looking for, because what did he have to lose? 

Ginny came into the room shaking raindrops off her hair and grinning. "Hey, at least it's raining over there too. She stood me up, can you believe it? Well, all right, so I stood her up by being so late and she left, but she got me _soaked, _and all for nothing in the end—" 

Seamus stopped listening. Impossible to leave now, but Ginny had to work tomorrow, and he didn't. 

Small puddles had formed in crevices on the road, and were calm. The clouds had begun to part, for the first time in days. Patches of blue shone through and the wisps of white were tinged with pink. It was almost ten, and light. Red stuttered below orange as a van glided away down the street, carefully navigating, hemmed in by the endless lines of parked cars. To his left the clouds were still smoky; he could almost taste cigar ash, or the nasty residue in the bottom of his grandfather's pipes. The dripping butterfly bush was battered and broken, flattened and distended, half its flowers brown; but it was growing and new, there were roses in the garden below, and everything was real and bright and moving.


End file.
